Working Girl
by NinjaSquirls
Summary: The end of the war changed more than just the obvious. In which Harry, trying to get away, runs into Draco, just trying to get by. [All he could think was that seeing Draco Malfoy in a skirt should have been much more amusing than this] HPDM slash. Angst.


**A/N**: I'm back, I'm back! I have returned from the depths of utter summer laziness and NSO brain-melting with finally something new! (And probably there will be more new, cause now I'll be able to do procrastinating on important college papers stress writing) So I bring you...um...cross-dressing prositution? Cause, um, yeah. No idea where this came from. Really. Except I was looking at Albus Severus/Scorpius fanart at the time. But, yeah, I like this. I like believing that Draco would have had a hard time getting by after the war - I mean, he was kind of a Death Eater, right? I don't think they just let you get on with your life after something like that...And just so you know, I hate canon!Ginny. Really, a lot. I like fanon!Ginny, I just don't like that JK made her into a total Mary-Sue. So, slight Ginny-bashing here, and hints of serious marriage problems. And Harry being sad and incredibly thick and probably closeted gay. Poor boy.

Disclaimer: If I owned it, Shoebox would be canon and JK would not. So there.

* * *

**Working Girl**

If asked, Harry Potter would have said that nothing in the world could have enticed him to be found at two in the morning in a dark alley in the worst part of King's Cross, about to be serviced by a cheap whore.

He hadn't intended to come here. When he'd stormed out of the house in the middle of an argument with Ginny, dodging the plates that flung themselves to pieces against the wall around him, he'd only been thinking about escaping, about getting as far as he could from their tiny flat where she was probably still standing in the living room, shrieking at him.

When he regained enough control to notice what part of the city he'd wandered into, Harry's first thought was to flee, to get out as fast as he could – he could go to Ron and Hermione's maybe, they were used to having him sleep on their couch – because this was King's Cross, worse than Knockturn Alley by a long shot for someone like him that looked like he had a little bit of money and no way to defend himself.

Standing in the dull yellowish light of a battered streetlamp, though, Harry wondered what he had to lose. A job at the Ministry he only did because they'd begged him? A wife who had just accused him of being uninterested in being married, of only agreeing because Ron had asked him to? A hundred different nightmares of the war that woke him up screaming two nights out of three?

Harry smiled grimly. He'd always gotten a sort of bleak pleasure in playing with death – it was one of the things that made him such a brilliant Seeker – and lately he'd been living too safe, too easy. A walk in the ugly part of town was just what he needed. And if something happened, well, then it happened.

To Harry's disappointment, he must have picked up more of an intimidating aura from his Auror friends than he'd realized; after walking for an hour, he'd seen a lot of abandoned buildings, cracked streets, garbage-strewn sidewalks, cockroaches, and even rats, but no people – no muggers, no drug dealers, no strung-out addicts, nothing.

The street corner where he stopped to rest was undoubtedly one of the ugliest places Harry had ever seen. The brick wall behind him was bright with graffiti, so many layers Harry couldn't really make out more than a few obscenities. Water from an earlier rain swirled around the gutter, which was thickly clogged with old newspapers, candy wrappers, and other trash. Jagged cracks crossed the sidewalk in every direction, and what he could see of the road was gutted with potholes. The thick mist that suffused this part of London through most of the fall did nothing to take away from the foulness of the scene; rather, it made everything seem more ominous, and the way it hung, heavy, almost sticky, left Harry feeling damp and dirty.

Harry had just slumped against the wall, lighting a fag he'd fished out of his pocket, when he saw her.

Platinum blond hair fell straight to slim shoulders, a precise silk-pale shade he'd only ever seen on one person before. Sleek strands framed a pale, pointed face and set off the narrow grey eyes almost as much as the heavy black eyeliner and dark lipstick did. She had a leather jacket wrapped tightly around her, even though the night was barely cool. Harry had never seen anything like it – the mandarin collar fastened at the throat, the tight line of jet-black buttons that ended where the coat was cropped around her navel, the chains and leather straps that led from a dizzying array of pockets and seams. The black leather skirt she wore with it had almost as many chains as the jacket, and ended at mid-thigh, setting off slender legs that seemed to go on for miles, ending in heavy black combat boots.

She was possibly the most beautiful girl Harry had ever seen, and she was climbing out of a car that had just parked across the street, tucking a handful of bills into one of the pockets of her skirt.

Harry held his breath as she crossed the street toward him, but all she did was lean against the wall a few feet away, pulling out her own cigarette and lighter, and for several minutes the silence was only broken by the sound of smoke being slowly exhaled.

"What are you doing in a place like this?" she asked finally. Harry was surprised at her voice, soft and lower than he'd expected.

Harry shrugged. "I – that is, I don't really know. I just – I had a fight, and I stormed out, and going back seemed kind of stupid, and I was already here before I realized, and I thought what the hell, not like I care if anything happens."

"Really?" she asked, and her breathy chuckle sent shivers down his spine. "Then would you _like_ for something to happen?"

"I – er, what?" he asked.

"Ten pounds," she said softly, tracing a finger down his arm. "Ten pounds, and I'm on my knees in that alley making you forget _everything_. What do you say?"

Harry felt as though someone had just bewitched the ground out from beneath his feet. Several things – the exchange with the man in the car, for one – suddenly made a lot more sense, but it still left him reeling.

"You're…you mean to say, you're a – _prostitute_?" he managed to stammer out.

The blond rolled her eyes at him. "No," she snarled. "I just like blowing strange men in vile alleys, and thought you'd give me the money as a present. Now, are we going to do this, or are you going to let me go find someone who _will_ pay me for my trouble?"

The word no hadn't quite left Harry's lips before it was swallowed in a pained yelp; he dropped the burned-down end of his cigarette and thrust his scorched knuckles into his mouth.

With the few added seconds, Harry couldn't figure out why he should refuse. Not when he wanted it so badly, not when he could feel a sick, hot surge of lust twisting his stomach and making his skin tingle. Not when the girl's low, spiteful tones left him reeling, filled his mind with suggestions and images and stirred the edges of something almost familiar, memories maybe, or dreams. Not when he was desperate with the desire to do something, anything, that would get him as far away as he could from Ginny and her soft, choking, little-girl world of true love and happily ever after, something cruel, something hateful, something dirty that he could think about throwing in her face when he couldn't stand it any more.

"Fine. Here's the money," Harry snapped finally, fishing a crumpled ten-pound note out of his pocket. The blond gave him a thin smile and made a show of tucking the bill away in a pocket of her tight skirt.

"Do you want to go somewhere a little more private," she whispered into his ear, "Or do you really want me down on my knees in that alley behind you?"

Harry struggled to pull himself together enough to give an answer other than a strangled moan; the girl had one arm twined around him, fingers tracing tantalizing circles on his chest, and he hadn't noticed her other hand snaking down below his waist, but now she was playing with the button of his jeans in a way that left him barely able to breathe, let alone speak coherently.

"Alley," he choked out. "Alley. _Please_."

Then she was tugging his arm, dragging him out from under the barely-illuminated circle made by the streetlamp and into the grubby darkness of the alley. He felt a hand on his chest, shoving him against the pitted brick wall firmly enough that he felt the knobs of his backbone clack against the stone, and then his belt was undone and his pants were yanked down around his thighs and all the time that hand kept up a teasing, maddening rhythm of rubbing and pressing and then she was on her knees, that pale pointed face smirking up at him. And there was something in that face he recognized, something familiar in that smirk and when he realized that all the pieces fell into place and it was so obvious he couldn't believe he hadn't seen it from the start.

"Oh – oh God" Harry exclaimed. "_Draco?" _

And all he could think as he jerked away from her – _him_ – and blindly groped for his pants was that seeing Draco Malfoy in a skirt should have been much more amusing than this.

* * *

When Draco came back from the restroom, face still slightly pink from scrubbing off his make-up and clad now in a pair of tight black jeans – though he'd kept the leather jacket – Harry was sitting at a table near the front of the diner, tracing circles in the sugar someone had spilled across its surface. Harry looked up with a jolt when Draco slumped into the seat across from him – and a small voice in the back of his head demanded to know since when had Draco Malfoy _slumped_ – and only through a valiant act of self-recovery kept from adding a shaker's worth of salt to the tabletop. Draco raised a pale eyebrow at the spectacle, but Harry's only response was to shove a steaming mug of coffee at him. 

For several minutes they sat in companionable quiet, but eventually Harry found himself staring at the dark dregs in the bottom of his cup, and in the uncomfortable position of having to think of something to say.

"So," he said. "Well. Er…" And trailed off into awkward silence.

Draco pushed his coffee cup aside, leaned forward on his elbows to stare intently into Harry's face, let out a soft snort of almost-laughter.

"Is that the best you can do?" he drawled. He pitched his voice higher, "'_So. Well. Er…_' What, the Great, Wonderful, _Famous_ Harry Potter doesn't want to know how Draco Malfoy sunk so low? He isn't happy, to see an enemy brought down like this? Or is it just too unpleasant? He doesn't want to sully his mind by _thinking_ about it? I expected more from you, Potter."

Harry felt himself cringing from the disgust in Draco's voice, from the vague, unstated suggestion that he was somehow to blame for this, that it was his fault he was a hero and Draco was…well, whatever he was now.

In the end, it was only the slight betraying twitch of Draco's leg, the way he twisted slightly as if he were about to get up and leave, as if this were all just a pathetic waste of his time, that replaced Harry's shame with anger. He leapt to his feet, furious.

"Now see here!" He shouted, slamming one hand against the table. "You can't expect me to know what to say in a situation like this. It's not like I'm used to running into old school rivals dressed as girls and offering blowjobs, you know! I mean, this is just – it's just weird, Malfoy!" He dropped heavily back into his seat. "What _happened_ to you?"

When Draco answered, it carried none of the bitterness and rage that Harry had heard only a few moments before, festering just beneath the surface of his words; his tone was cool, unaffected, disinterested, as if they were discussing the weather, or a report on cauldron bottoms.

"The _war_ happened, Potter," he answered, sitting back with his arms crossed over his chest. "Don't you remember? You killed Voldemort, and we lost. That's it. End of story."

"But I don't – what does that have to do with this? It's not like you were even a Death Eater, not really."

Draco glared at him, hard enough that he wondered if he ought to check to see if he had holes burned through his head now. "You are a fool, aren't you Potter?" He hissed. "I was a Death Eater, in all the ways that mattered to the Ministry at least. They didn't have enough evidence that I done anything to put me away in Azkaban – or mother went down and begged them not to, I don't really know – but they did everything but. They confiscated the Manor, everything in it, all our funds in Gringotts. They didn't leave us a penny."

Draco's smile stretched narrow and tight, nearly a grimace, thick with anger and grief and old hate but still with something of smug satisfaction in it. "The shock was quite too much for father, I'm afraid," he said softly. "He died, not long after, by his own hand."

"I'm, I'm sorry," Harry muttered. "Even if he was – he was still your father. I'm sorry."

"Don't be," Draco said. "My father was a horrible man. I don't think I appreciated quite how much I hated him until he died and I realized I was how happy it made me. And at least he chose to die honorably, while it still meant something. It's more than I've done."

Harry almost thought he could see unshed tears gleaming in Draco's eyes, and his hands were shaking in that way of a person who is about to cry, or possibly stab someone; all things considered, he was quite relieved that the waitress chose that moment to come round and offer to refill their coffee cups.

By the time she had finished bustling about and two newly steaming mugs sat in front of them, Draco appeared to have pulled himself together; the tight, dangerous, unstable look was gone, replaced by a more familiar cold sneer that Harry rather welcomed.

"Anyway," Draco said crisply, as if trying to defy any hint of pity Harry might be showing. "Mother had a bit of money of her own, that her sister Andromeda left to her. It was enough for her to live on – not well, but well enough – but if she'd tried to support me…I couldn't do that to her. So I left, and came to London, with almost nothing, and working was out of the question, of course."

"Don't tell me," Harry snarled. "Don't tell me all this is because a Malfoy refused to work, even when he's _starving_. You're still the same damn spoiled brat, aren't you?"

He felt somehow disappointed, but he wasn't sure why.

"Of course I am," Draco answered coolly. "But that wasn't why. I'm many things, but I'm not an idiot – unlike _some_ people. The Ministry made it impossible for me to get work."

"But they can't do that!"

"They can, Potter, and quite easily at that. All they had to do was send out a list of "Former Death Eaters and Suspected Death Eaters" – for the purpose of public safety, you know. After that, I couldn't even get a job washing dishes in the Leaky Caldron, even if I had condescended to sink so low. No one wants to be reminded of the war. And I am…still a Malfoy. Even if I tried to hide it, people would see it in me, and we are not liked, or trusted. There is no place in the Wizarding world for a son of the house of Malfoy, Potter, not now."

"Even if that's true, there's still Muggle London, you know. You could get a job in, I don't know, a shop, or a pub, or something, without magic. Or is doing _this_ better than to consorting with Mudbloods?" Harry asked.

"Don't be ridiculous, Potter. Why would anything be different in Muggle London? Or did you really not know that the Ministry and the Muggle Parliament keep 'diplomatic ties'? I've no doubt the muggles have all been told we were some kind of mad criminals or something of the sort."

Draco paused then, gazing intently into the murky depths of his coffee cup, clenching his fingers so tight around it Harry could see his knuckles turning white.

"Besides," he said. "What would I do, if I did try to work in Muggle London? You forget that I was raised to be the Lord of the Manor; I was never taught how to do things that didn't require magic. It was never supposed to be a possibility. Such things are beneath a Malfoy, after all. There was nothing for me, not really. This was the best way. The only way."

"So what?" Harry asked. "You just decided, oh well, I seem to have run out of options, I guess I'll just dress up as a girl and be a streetwalker, no help for it? And that was it?"

The way Draco's fingers twitched made Harry think he was about to slap him.

"Don't act like this is all some great bloody joke, Potter! What would you have done, if you were down to your last few pounds, and hadn't eaten in days, and some bloke driving by stopped and offered you money if you would suck him off? Wouldn't you have done the same? Or is the Gryffindor Golden Boy too _noble_ to do something so pathetic, so disgusting, just to get by?"

Harry had no answer, mostly because he just couldn't get his mind wrapped around the story Draco was suggesting. He tried to picture Draco – desperate, friendless in London, unable to find work, starving – submitting to a stranger's proposition, just because he had no choice, no other options, and he couldn't. He couldn't imagine Draco – Malfoy! – ever being so out of control of his life that he would do something for any other reason than he wanted to.

"Screw this," Draco snapped. "Screw _you_, Potter. This was a bloody stupid idea, I don't know why I even came here, why I'm talking to you like this. I should have walked away as soon as I recognized you on that damn street corner. I should have known better than to ever think you would understand, that you would care, that you would give a damn about _anything_ aside from your _perfect_ Golden Boy life. Just – fuck off, alright, Potter?"

And then Draco pushed his cup aside – Harry noted distantly the way it wobbled and nearly spilled – and stood up, adjusting his jacket in furious little jerks and dragging a hand violently through his hair, and Harry could tell he was about to leave, to storm out even, and more than anything Harry didn't want him to. If he left now, it would be all wrong, all unbalanced, just an encounter that didn't mean anything and didn't change anything except leaving a sick cold feeling in his stomach because he owed Draco now, he knew something secret about Draco and Draco knew nothing about him and that wasn't right, and he just _couldn't_ let him leave like this.

Harry didn't realize what he was doing until he was already on his feet, one hand clutching Draco's sleeve to keep him from leaving, and he was so startled by it he said the first thing that popped into his head.

"I hate being married to Ginny," he said.

"What are you babbling about, Potter?" Draco demanded. "Let me go, damnit!"

"I married Ginny," Harry explained, clinging tighter to Draco's sleeve. "Just a few months ago, you see. And I don't really know why, except that we dated in school, and I knew she wanted to, and Ron wanted me to and we're best mates, and her mum was so happy about it and I wanted that for her, and I just couldn't think of a good reason not to. Except that now that we are married, I can think of a lot of good reasons not to be. Mostly that we're miserable, really, we fight all the time, about money, and how she thinks I should have been an Auror, instead of taking a Ministry desk job, even though I told her I was sick of fighting, and how I don't think about her enough, or I don't really care about her, which was what we were fighting about tonight when I left. But I think really the problem is that I don't love her, not the way I always thought I did, and I didn't know it until it was too late to do anything. I wish I could, but I don't, and I don't know if she's not who I thought she was, or if I'm not who I thought I was, or if I was never in love to begin with, or if it's something else completely, but I don't love her. And tonight I found myself in King's Cross realizing that I didn't care, particularly, whether or not I died because my life isn't _worth_ caring about. So the perfect Golden Boy life you're talking about isn't all that impressive, really."

Harry sighed heavily, and unconsciously let his arm drop, releasing Draco. "Sometimes," he whispered, not quite meeting Draco's eyes. "Sometimes I wish things could have gone differently. I wonder what might have changed, if you and I – if we hadn't – if things were different. If it would be – better than this."

"Yes, well," said Draco bitterly, snatching his arm back as if Harry's touch had burned him, straight through the leather. "It's not different, is it? Say what you like about how things might have been different, but they _aren't_. This is all there is, Potter. All those might-have-beens are a sweet dream, but this is the real world, and it _isn't_ better. It's pathetic."

Biting his lip, Harry resisted a sudden, inexplicable temptation to wrap his arms around Draco, hug him as tightly as he could, until the world was a better place, and Draco didn't sound so jaded and bitter and _hurt_ anymore.

"Is it that bad, then?" Harry asked softly. "What you do? Do you hate it that much?"

Draco's choked-off laugh sounded more like a sob, really. "I'm a fucking prostitute, Potter. I put on a skirt, because they like it so much better that way, and get on my knees and let men use me for the pay. I'm selling _myself_, because I don't have anything else worth enough to live on. What about that sounds _good_ to you? Of course I fucking hate it! I hate it more than I've hated doing anything in my life, but I don't have a damn choice, do I?"

"Don't say that!" Harry shouted. "Don't act like your whole damn life's been decided already, Malfoy! There – I mean, there has to be something you could do, if you really think this is so awful!"

"Like what?" Draco sneered. "What exactly would you suggest I do, Potter?"

Harry took a small step forward, gazed steadily into Draco's grey eyes. "You could ask me for help," he said quietly. "Would that be so awful, Draco? I could – well, I don't know what I could do, but I'm sure I could do something. I mean, I have connections – friends, people who owe me favors, even just people who would want to do what I asked because it's Harry Potter asking it. My name's good for at least one suspected Death Eater, I think. I could help you…and I would. I really would."

Harry fumbled in his pocket, found an old receipt and a cheap ballpoint pen. Leaning across the table, he scribbled out his phone number on the back of the receipt, then straightened, and pressed it into Draco's hand.

"Here," he said. "It's my phone number, and no one answers it except me, ever, not even Ginny. If you – well, if you want help, call me, alright? Please."

"I don't need your help," Draco answered coldly. "And I don't want your pity. Now if you'll excuse me, I really must be off – places to go, people to do, and whatnot." A long, thoughtful pause, and he added, "I might be able to help you, you know – that little red-headed problem of yours. I'm sure there's something I could do, if you asked nicely." An odd smile quirked his lips. "Maybe I'll see you again, Potter."

With that, Draco turned and walked toward the door. Harry felt an odd pang of sadness, watching speechless as Draco walked away; he felt as if he should have said something more, as if he should have stopped him, as if he should have gone after him, but all he could do was stand and stare, and then he was gone.

Standing at the counter paying for his coffee, though, Harry realized that he had seen Draco, as he strode through the door, slip his number into his pocket, and he couldn't keep himself from smiling.

* * *

A/N: Please review! I really hate writing dialogue, and I'd like feedback on how I did...and if I managed not to mangle my characters too badly. Harry is a bitch to write. Draco, however, is far too much fun... 


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